Only love can break your heart

Her face to you is plain maybe; washed away like an Easter Island relic. To me her flat face and open pores, her Jewish nose and those sad and lonely eyes, I love them.

She is bony. My arm under hers on that back breaking bed, I can feel her ribs, all her knotted clothes and lace digging into my arm. Her body is rigid, and I wonder what she is thinking as we breathe in curious unison and sink to the centre of the bed.
*
It is dark in the way St. Kilda gets dark; a pallid light leaks through the window and the glass is misty with condensation. It is late. The room smells of incense and cats as I climb over her, and I know I won't sleep again tonight. I don't wake her up; she's a good sleeper.
I sit in the lounge and watch a black and white movie; a girl wants her crooked guy to go straight. In spite of myself I am drawn into their world, but I know something they don't: sex won't save you, love won't spare us. That's where you're wrong; you're wasting your time.
*
The streets are shining as I trudge along. I don't hold any false hopes, you know; I've been around too long. A cleaner whirrs; its lights flash amber as it tries to cram all the crap down the drain. The moon has a halo, and it leads me on, across a footbridge and towards the sea. I stand like a baby, my teardrops falling. Why they choose this moment? I don't know. I just don't know. It doesn't matter anyway.
There will be a perpetual place in my heart for us: on her Persian rug, sharing cups of tea. A shawl enfolds her like a spider's web. Patsy Cline is playing, Gene Pitney, Dion. Sometimes she rolls a cigarette, and I put on the kettle. She talks and I listen, I talk and she listens. We are old, friends.

Paul Whitby